Only Duke Brightwood and Lord Emmett remained.
Duke Brightwood stood. He rarely spoke on the topic being discussed in meetings, instead offering quips and droll comments, but today, his smile had vanished.
“I will not dethrone my king,” he said. “I submit pardon.”
Four against pardon. Four in favor.
All eyes turned to Lord Emmett, the final adviser.
He stood and quietly said, “The evidence is not enough for me. I submit pardon.”
Pardon held the majority. Aria’s heart slowed in her chest, each beat thudding dully against her rib cage, like a prisoner who’d beaten her fist so long against the door she’d lost all strength to continue.
Queen Theresa’s journal slipped free from her fingers, and turning in surprise, she saw her father held the journal, opening it to the pages she’d marked, one after another. He stared down in silence at his mother’s handwriting. After turning to the final entry, he lingered. Then he closed the cover.
He stood. “This trial is decided.”
Aria looked away, so she did not see her father’s face when he said—
“I abdicate.”
She whirled back, gaping along with the rest of the Upper Court. Her father met her gaze, brows furrowed, dark eyes shining with a profound pain, and then he reached out to grip her shoulder. Not for comfort, but as a man who’d lost his steadiness on the ground.
“I made a mistake,” he whispered, pressing the journal into her hands.
For a moment, his grip lingered, painful in its strength, then he walked down the steps of the dais, exiting the throne room.
Aria watched him go, adrift in the lake.
Until, with effort, she remembered how to swim.
“Respected advisers,” she said, drawing in a deep breath. “It appears I’ll need a coronation.”
One Month Later
The letter arrived by standard post rather than by falcon, and it seemed a waste not only of post but of good parchment—three scrawny lines isolated in a sea of blank space. All the same, Aria smiled when she read it.
Your sister’s safe.
I heard about your revolution and would just like to say: I knew it.
Silas
“Not one to gloat, is he?” She passed the letter to Baron, who sat beside her on the garden bench.
He gave a low whistle, his breath puffing in the winter air. “Over a dozen words. He truly couldn’t resist.”
Aria wished the news were stronger—that Eliza was on her way home, or that she was at least sending a full letter of her own—but she accepted the relief ofsomecertainty. There had been precious little of it in recent days.
She tucked the letter away to protect it from the falling snowflakes. Baron wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she snuggled into his woolen coat. From another part of the garden, she heard playful shouts and at least one instance of“you skinny chicken!”
The surgeon had finally declared Corvin’s leg healed enoughto endure light exercise—though the boy required a cane for support—and he hadn’t wasted a moment.
“I see Corvin’s studying hard,” Aria said.
Baron nodded, his cheek rubbing against her hair. “This new steward is frightfully lax compared to the last; the boy may never receive a proper day of education.”
“Oh, I imagine he’ll learn by example. This steward is the bestbaronI know.”
